You never know when or in what form you may get a glimpse of American culture. Yesterday, in one of my speaking classes, the students were working in groups, discussing the possible changes and advances that may take place in the world by the year 2045. (The date the textbook set was 2025, but it’s about 20 years old. Let’s just say that the cover of this text has the silhouette of a man with one of the most unbridled and majestic moustaches you will ever see the outline of and that the picture that accompanies this activity was chocked full of flying cars.) Along with articulating these speculations, they were also given the task of making the following judgment: is this a change for the better, for the worse, or neither and why?
One group suggested that time travel would, by this time, be a reality. When asked if this development would be a positive influence on society, one student said no. His reason was that this would allow people to go back in time and gamble unfairly on past sporting events. I asked him if he got this concept from a certain move sequel and he said yes. I have never been prouder.
When all is said and done, I have to agree with him. Sorry Biff, but due to people like you, the Flux Capacitor is just a little too risky. Take it from me, because thanks to about a dozen time zones, I’m actually writing this from the future.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Culture Club part 1 (but not the Boy George kind…for the most part)
When making that sometimes painful transition from fanny pack toting tourist to actual resident, there are a few things you can do to cope with the cultural stress. One option is to remember that you are not alone in this process and that others all around the globe are awkwardly fumbling into strange new lifestyles. For example, Michael Jackson made the leap from the magical world that is the Never Land Ranch to the Middle Eastern country of Bahrain, and judging by his recent lack of publicity, I have to imagine that things are going pretty well for the King of Pop. Sure you can make excuses as to the cause of his successful adaptation. You can speculate that Bahrain is a country lined with zoos and glove shops from coast to coast and that architects there never really warmed up to the prospect of a second story balcony, but in the end, you have to give Michael the nod and face the music (especially the song Billy Jean because the video had light-up sidewalks).
The other option is to take note of those things which seem a bit frustrating when set against your own arbitrary biases that America has endowed you with, intentionally choose to look past these things, and ultimately chalk them up to that neutral entity known as culture. Plus this isn’t really a subject you can tackle egocentrically because, as Newton taught us, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. If I’m frustrated, chances are, the person across the table is experiencing that same negative affect and thankfully, the Vietnamese are an incredibly gracious people, always willing to give me some operational slack, a mentality that deserves emulation. Besides in the end, not to underestimate that force that culture brings to any situation, people are people and we’re all doing the best we can the best we know how.
However, sometimes I fall short of this standard and take advantage of what I like to call the Zach Morris Effect. Go back with me, if you will, to a high time of ripped jeans, neon colors, and hair parted down the middle, the era that launched the just post-pubescent phenomenon known as Saved by the Bell. The lead character was a charismatic heartthrob named Zach Morris who had the ability, with a snap of his finger, to pause time at any moment as a means of narrating his current dilemma and aiding those viewers who had perhaps missed certain key points amidst the intricate plot twists. In his case, all of the characters were frozen in times, and often, just to stick it to his jocky counterpart, he would undue a button or two on Slater’s silk shirt. Yes, Zach could be absolutely vicious.
In Vietnam this finger snap manifests itself in the following way. My students here in Hanoi have quite an impressive English proficiency and many Hanoians know at least a little English and then again, many residents have little to no working knowledge of this ridiculously confusing language. When communicating with these two latter groups there is a mutual ability for each side to speak freely and fastly in their own native language without any fear of their international counterparts comprehending what was spoken (I mean I’m learning Vietnamese, but it’s a tough process, and at this point, unless we’re dealing with numbers or salutational inquiries, people really have to slow down for me to get even an inkling of meaning). As such, I’m able to offer narration on any situation as if the person I’m commenting on isn’t even there, which can be a really dangerous privilege because often these comments are the sarcastic products of cultural frustration.
For example, last night five of us went out for dinner and while we we’re ordering, four different employees were huddling around our table in an uncomfortably close sort of way. One man kept pointing to the menu and speaking to Melia (our American Korean teammate who often gets pegged by the nationals as Vietnamese) and when somebody asked what I thought he was saying, I responded with, “Well judging by his outfit, I can only imagine that he’s describing 19 different ways to say denim in Vietnamese.” It was a spiteful comment and not what an ambassador of any sort should be saying, but it’s a coping mechanism I often fall into. I myself though take no personal responsibility for such episodes and blame it all on Mark-Paul Gosselaar. Okay not really, but seriously, it’s an area I need help with.
.........On another note, here's a link to view some pictures of the team. They were taken by one of our two team leaders so they're mainly just pics of the team hanging out and not us with our students (the latter being something I need to put more of on here because that is really my lifeblood here).
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=8978&l=cd31e&id=612313582
The other option is to take note of those things which seem a bit frustrating when set against your own arbitrary biases that America has endowed you with, intentionally choose to look past these things, and ultimately chalk them up to that neutral entity known as culture. Plus this isn’t really a subject you can tackle egocentrically because, as Newton taught us, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. If I’m frustrated, chances are, the person across the table is experiencing that same negative affect and thankfully, the Vietnamese are an incredibly gracious people, always willing to give me some operational slack, a mentality that deserves emulation. Besides in the end, not to underestimate that force that culture brings to any situation, people are people and we’re all doing the best we can the best we know how.
However, sometimes I fall short of this standard and take advantage of what I like to call the Zach Morris Effect. Go back with me, if you will, to a high time of ripped jeans, neon colors, and hair parted down the middle, the era that launched the just post-pubescent phenomenon known as Saved by the Bell. The lead character was a charismatic heartthrob named Zach Morris who had the ability, with a snap of his finger, to pause time at any moment as a means of narrating his current dilemma and aiding those viewers who had perhaps missed certain key points amidst the intricate plot twists. In his case, all of the characters were frozen in times, and often, just to stick it to his jocky counterpart, he would undue a button or two on Slater’s silk shirt. Yes, Zach could be absolutely vicious.
In Vietnam this finger snap manifests itself in the following way. My students here in Hanoi have quite an impressive English proficiency and many Hanoians know at least a little English and then again, many residents have little to no working knowledge of this ridiculously confusing language. When communicating with these two latter groups there is a mutual ability for each side to speak freely and fastly in their own native language without any fear of their international counterparts comprehending what was spoken (I mean I’m learning Vietnamese, but it’s a tough process, and at this point, unless we’re dealing with numbers or salutational inquiries, people really have to slow down for me to get even an inkling of meaning). As such, I’m able to offer narration on any situation as if the person I’m commenting on isn’t even there, which can be a really dangerous privilege because often these comments are the sarcastic products of cultural frustration.
For example, last night five of us went out for dinner and while we we’re ordering, four different employees were huddling around our table in an uncomfortably close sort of way. One man kept pointing to the menu and speaking to Melia (our American Korean teammate who often gets pegged by the nationals as Vietnamese) and when somebody asked what I thought he was saying, I responded with, “Well judging by his outfit, I can only imagine that he’s describing 19 different ways to say denim in Vietnamese.” It was a spiteful comment and not what an ambassador of any sort should be saying, but it’s a coping mechanism I often fall into. I myself though take no personal responsibility for such episodes and blame it all on Mark-Paul Gosselaar. Okay not really, but seriously, it’s an area I need help with.
.........On another note, here's a link to view some pictures of the team. They were taken by one of our two team leaders so they're mainly just pics of the team hanging out and not us with our students (the latter being something I need to put more of on here because that is really my lifeblood here).
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=8978&l=cd31e&id=612313582
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Eleanor Rigby vs Penny Lane
Here are some pictures from the last two months: two of the average Hanoi landscape, two of my students, and one of our team in China at the Great Wall. Let me know if there are specific kinds of things you want to see pictures of on here. Gregg, I know you're looking for shots of the architecture and I will soon deliver.
A lot has happened since the last post.
When we first arrived in Hanoi, the institute put us up in a hotel. However, about a week and a half ago we moved into the school's guesthouse. It's right next to do the school, and, in turn, demands only a short walk to class that affords certain privileges a ten minute bicycle ride cannot. Case in point, I’m now able to bring a hot cup of coffee to my 7am classes on Mondays and Tuesdays, a cargo I was never brave enough to carry on my sweet three speed ride. True, I do wear a helmet on my bike, but that’s only so much protection. For example, that kind of bravado could have scalded my teaching arm. Such an injury might have taken off some arm hair, which would probably be a good thing in a country where body hair is about as common as a reference to Andrew Dice Clay, but it’s still not worth it. Besides, if it didn’t make Robin Williams self-conscious to be here, then what do I have to worry about.
In this guesthouse, I share a room with Scott, a good friend whom I met in Nam during my summer teaching stint in ’06. It’s modest and adequate and comfortable. In many ways it’s like living in the dorms again, which I really like. We have an adjoining bathroom that, when we first moved in, had a pretty bad leak (actually leak is too weak of a word, it was really more of a spurt shooting out of the wall). On top of that, the tank on the toilet was broke and couldn’t fill up, rendering that cathartic act of flushing impossible. However, Scott, with the amazing ingenuity of that basketball coach who finally put Air Bud in the game, took the two problems and cancelled them out. He used a bucket to catch the spurt and then emptied the contents into the tank. I was honestly impressed. He found that creative third way.
This new location is also great for relationships. You can never underestimate the power of proximity. I see my students all the time now as I’m out and about living in Hanoi. Last Saturday I simply walked outside my place and met a group of students for lunch. We had a really good time. Most of them are from provinces outside of Hanoi so they actually live in the next building over. It’s referred to as the student hostel. The main course was a soup called Lau, a meal with quite the selection of ingredients. I asked them specifically about one strange looking piece of meat that they had deposited in my bowl. It was beige colored, cut into a wide but then strips, and covered with small spiky bumps. Stupidly, I asked them what it was before I ate it. They said it came from the cow’s stomach. Without asking any further questions, I wrapped it in veggies, counted to three, took a few cautionary bites, and swallowed hard. A few days later I found out that it’s called tripe and it’s the lining of a cow’s udders. That’s right, they’re not just for milk anymore.
That's about all for now, but I'll write more soon. Also, those on my newsletter list....I'll be sending in my first edition to ELI headquarters this week so hopefully it will arrive at your door about two weeks after that. I apologize for not sending one out sooner. There are some things in it that I can't wait to share with you.
Take care and keep in touch.
A lot has happened since the last post.
When we first arrived in Hanoi, the institute put us up in a hotel. However, about a week and a half ago we moved into the school's guesthouse. It's right next to do the school, and, in turn, demands only a short walk to class that affords certain privileges a ten minute bicycle ride cannot. Case in point, I’m now able to bring a hot cup of coffee to my 7am classes on Mondays and Tuesdays, a cargo I was never brave enough to carry on my sweet three speed ride. True, I do wear a helmet on my bike, but that’s only so much protection. For example, that kind of bravado could have scalded my teaching arm. Such an injury might have taken off some arm hair, which would probably be a good thing in a country where body hair is about as common as a reference to Andrew Dice Clay, but it’s still not worth it. Besides, if it didn’t make Robin Williams self-conscious to be here, then what do I have to worry about.
In this guesthouse, I share a room with Scott, a good friend whom I met in Nam during my summer teaching stint in ’06. It’s modest and adequate and comfortable. In many ways it’s like living in the dorms again, which I really like. We have an adjoining bathroom that, when we first moved in, had a pretty bad leak (actually leak is too weak of a word, it was really more of a spurt shooting out of the wall). On top of that, the tank on the toilet was broke and couldn’t fill up, rendering that cathartic act of flushing impossible. However, Scott, with the amazing ingenuity of that basketball coach who finally put Air Bud in the game, took the two problems and cancelled them out. He used a bucket to catch the spurt and then emptied the contents into the tank. I was honestly impressed. He found that creative third way.
This new location is also great for relationships. You can never underestimate the power of proximity. I see my students all the time now as I’m out and about living in Hanoi. Last Saturday I simply walked outside my place and met a group of students for lunch. We had a really good time. Most of them are from provinces outside of Hanoi so they actually live in the next building over. It’s referred to as the student hostel. The main course was a soup called Lau, a meal with quite the selection of ingredients. I asked them specifically about one strange looking piece of meat that they had deposited in my bowl. It was beige colored, cut into a wide but then strips, and covered with small spiky bumps. Stupidly, I asked them what it was before I ate it. They said it came from the cow’s stomach. Without asking any further questions, I wrapped it in veggies, counted to three, took a few cautionary bites, and swallowed hard. A few days later I found out that it’s called tripe and it’s the lining of a cow’s udders. That’s right, they’re not just for milk anymore.
That's about all for now, but I'll write more soon. Also, those on my newsletter list....I'll be sending in my first edition to ELI headquarters this week so hopefully it will arrive at your door about two weeks after that. I apologize for not sending one out sooner. There are some things in it that I can't wait to share with you.
Take care and keep in touch.
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